Chapter 1 - THE ENVELOPE IN HIS HAND
Roman DeLuca stood in the doorway with the cream-colored envelope
between two fingers.
For one terrible second, I forgot how to breathe.
Elena was still sitting by the piano. The afternoon light touched her
dark hair, but the laughter had vanished from her face. She looked from
Roman to me, then to the envelope.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
Roman closed the door behind him. His two guards remained outside.
“Your room,” he said. “It was beneath your mattress.”
My stomach tightened. “You went through my things?”
“I had Daniel check the room after a package addressed to you arrived at
the gate. This was already there. The same paper. The same handwriting.”
He placed the envelope on the piano bench. I recognized the faint blue
line across its flap. Four times that year, someone had pushed one like
it beneath my apartment door. Each contained eight hundred dollars. No
name. No note. No explanation.
“I didn’t steal it,” I said.
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“You’re holding it like evidence.”
“Because it may be.”
Elena rolled closer. “Roman, she told you she didn’t know who sent
them.”
He looked at his sister. “I heard her.”
“Then stop looking at her like she’s a suspect.”
Roman’s jaw shifted. “I need to know whether someone is using her to get
inside this house.”
I stared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded
twice. It was not a note. It was a photocopy of a loan statement bearing
my name, my old address, and a balance of $41,800.
My hands went cold.
“Where did you get that?”
“It was inside the envelope delivered to the gate this morning.”
I reached for it. Roman let me take it.
The account number was familiar. It was one of the fraudulent loans my
ex-husband, Caleb, had opened using my identity. I had spent years
disputing it. The company had sold the debt twice, and every time I
thought it was settled, a new collector appeared.
“Whoever sent this knows about the debt,” I whispered.
“And knows you work here,” Roman said.
Elena frowned. “Why would someone send money and then send a statement?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never asked for the money. I didn’t even
spend it.”
Roman’s gaze returned to me. “You kept all four envelopes?”
“In a tin. I thought the police might need them one day.”
He nodded toward Daniel, who entered after a quiet signal. “Have the
envelopes and this document examined. No one contacts the lender until
our attorney has reviewed the account.”
I stood. “I don’t need your attorney.”
“You may need someone who understands what has been done to you.”
“I’ve handled it for years.”
“And how has that worked?”
The words stung because they were true. I lowered my eyes.
Elena moved between us—not physically, but with the firm voice I had
heard her use only when she was determined.
“Roman, she made me laugh today. Do you know how long it’s been since
that happened? Don’t turn the first good afternoon I’ve had in three
years into an interrogation.”
His expression softened for a fraction of a second.
“I didn’t come here to ruin it.”
“Then sit down.”
Roman looked at the hardwood floor where he had sat the day before. For
a moment, I thought he might refuse. Then he lowered himself onto the
rug, his expensive trousers creasing beneath him.
Elena’s mouth twitched.
“Better,” she said.
I picked up the mop.
“Are we dancing or investigating?”
Elena laughed again. Roman looked at her as if the sound were something
fragile he had been afraid to touch.
“Both,” he said.
But when I returned to my apartment that night, the fifth envelope was
waiting beneath my door.
May you like
This one contained no money.
Only a photograph of Caleb standing outside the DeLuca mansion.
